Things We Left Behind (Knockemout, #3)

She shifted on her stool to turn away from me, but I was faster.

I gripped the suede cushion between her parted thighs and dragged her closer.

The little gasp that escaped her lips had my cock stirring. We both stared down at my hand she was now straddling. The hem of her dress tickled my thumb. Her smooth, bare thighs caressed the sides of my fist. I could feel the heat from her core.

I pulled the stool even closer until her legs slid between my own. An inch. Maybe two. That was all that separated the heel of my hand from the heat of her core.

“Have you lost your already addled mind?” she hissed.

But she didn’t push me away, didn’t slap me like I deserved. No, the woman put here on this earth with the sole purpose of irritating me spread her thighs ever so slightly wider.

It was a trap. I was sure of it.

“Probably,” I admitted. I signaled the bartender for another round. The poor kid looked moderately scared.

The feel of her caged between my legs was intoxicating. It had been a stupid move designed to get a rise out of her, yet I was the one with a stone-hard erection and elevated heart rate.

“Can’t you just go back to your evil lair and forget we ran into each other?” she asked.

Go home with the knowledge that she was picking out a lover and taking him back to her hotel room? That she was undressing for him, letting him see things I’d never earned the right to see? Letting him touch places I could only dream of?

Her breasts rose against the confines of her dress. There was nothing subtle about the view the square neckline provided.

“Why are you here?” I demanded again.

“To get laid, and you’re really messing with my mojo.”

My jaw tightened.

“Go ahead. Say something so I can give you the sex-shaming lecture before I kick you in the balls,” she challenged.

It was a legitimate threat. If she moved forward, her knees would be within striking distance.

“I thought you were getting serious about…dating,” I said.

She shrugged and the motion drew my attention back to her cleavage. My cock throbbed painfully against my zipper.

“I was. I am,” she corrected. “I just haven’t met anyone worth dating, let alone anyone I’d let give me a few orgasms. So here I am. Sex is a good stress reliever.”

“So you’re just going to pick up a complete stranger and let him touch you?”

“You do not get to judge, Rollins. I’m willing to bet you’ve had more than your fair share of uncomplicated one-night stands.”

“I’m not judging,” I lied.

She peered over my shoulder at a man ordering a beer, and my grip tightened on her stool. “No,” I said.

“You need to back off or I’m going to end up wasting a night in a hotel room with my vibrator.”

Spots danced before my eyes.

She squirmed almost imperceptibly on the stool. The movement brought her forward, giving my hand a brush of hot satin just as her knee settled against the ridge of my dick.

Fuck.

Those green eyes widened, her ruby lips parted, and there was no mistaking the quickening of her breath. Hot, damp flesh taunted me from the other side of her fuck-me underwear.

I was tired of fighting. Tired of fighting with her. Tired of fighting my baser desires. It was self-destructive to want the only woman who had shattered my life. Who’d broken my trust. Who had landed me behind bars and very nearly ruined my life before it had even begun.

Yet here I was, closer than I’d ever been before and still not close enough.

“What if you didn’t have to pick up a stranger?” I said, shifting my hand just enough to press harder against her sex.

Her nostrils flared delicately, making the stud in her nose sparkle. But she still hadn’t moved away, still hadn’t threatened to rearrange my face. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting you go upstairs now. With me.”

Her long lashes fluttered behind her glasses, and she shook her head. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?”

“You’re here. I’m here. It’s been a while for me too.” I wanted to shift my hand, to hook my finger in the band of satin that stood in my way. I wanted to slide it to the side and stroke my knuckles over that soft, tempting flesh.

“We can’t stand to be in the same room together. What makes you think I’d let you inside me?”

Inside her. She was teasing me now. Planting images in my mind of how she’d look the first time I drove into her.

The pulse at the base of her throat fluttered. Her breasts rose and fell as her breath came in short, delicate pants.

“It’s an itch that needs scratching. Not the beginning of a relationship,” I said dryly.

“Your capacity for romance knows no bounds.”

“What’s the one thing we haven’t tried to stop whatever this is between us?” I pressed.

“Murder?”

“Sex,” I countered.

She blinked and the color rose in her cheeks. “You’re serious.”

“One night,” I offered. “We get this insanity out of our systems.”

“We don’t even like each other. How am I supposed to let someone I don’t like do naked things to me?”

I let the heel of my hand press harder. “Because I’ll make it feel so good you won’t care.”

Her pupils were dilated, candy-red lips parted.

Our drinks appeared on the bar, but neither of us looked at them.

“Of course, if you don’t think you could control your feelings—” I began.

She tossed her head back. “You can’t double-dog dare me to get into bed with you, smart-ass.”

A man in Armani sidled up behind her and leaned on the bar. Sloane, sensing new quarry, peered over her shoulder. She flashed him the sunny smile that I never got out of her. The idiot looked as if he’d won the lottery, then glanced at me.

“No,” I said coldly.

I held his gaze and stroked my thumb over the middle of the damp spot I found on Sloane’s underwear.

She jolted, nearly knocking over her drink. To steady herself, she gripped my arms.

“You sneaky son of a bitch,” she hissed. Her knee was now pressed firmly against my balls.

“Either you and I go upstairs now, or I shadow you for the rest of the night,” I warned.

“You devious bastard.”

“Decide.”

“Fine,” she said with a careless shrug. “I’ll fuck your brains out for one night only. But don’t think this means anything.”

This victory was a sweeter, headier rush than any I could remember.

“You have five seconds to finish your drink,” I told her, signaling the bartender again.

She picked up her martini, eyes narrowed.

“Five, four, three…”

She took one fortifying gulp, then put the glass on the bar. The look she sent my way was the definition of antagonistic.

Neither of us was walking away this time.

With a mix of reluctance and anticipation, I removed my hand from between her legs and coasted my fingertips down her thighs.

“Let’s go.”

I threw some cash on the bar, gripped her arm, and pulled her toward the elevators. As I did, I brushed my thumb over my lips and savored the faint flavor of Sloane Walton.





21


The Dumbest, Hottest Mistake I Ever Made

Sloane




It was the longest elevator ride of my life, and my room was only on the fourth floor. The atmosphere between us was charged with something that felt like lightning. We didn’t touch, didn’t look at each other. We both just stared straight ahead at the brushed gold doors.

His stony, silent presence made it feel like the car was closing in on me.

This was a bonkers idea. It was so stupid I still wasn’t sure I was going to say yes once we got to my room. Could two people who rubbed each other so wrong figure out how to rub each other the right way for just one night? Doubtful.

This was definitely a mistake. A big, dumb mistake.

But at least I’d finally know, I rationalized as the elevator doors opened and we exited.